


Sparkle

by GloriaMundi



Series: Sparkly [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Community: au_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-11
Updated: 2011-02-11
Packaged: 2017-10-15 14:17:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames, pursued by Villains, is rescued by a slim besuited American who ... well. See title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sparkle

Eames spares a thought for the bastard who sold him out, but it's one thought amidst many: at the moment he's more concerned with outrunning the pursuit and living to backstab another day. Sharp's got it coming, the wanker. He and Nash are the sort of thieves who give the profession a bad name. No sense of loyalty. No sense of teamwork. No --

Eames' jacket hitches on a loose nail as he scrambles over a wooden fence, and he chalks up another point against Sharp. (Or possibly Nash.) The suit's only a Paul Smith, but he's fond of it -- though he'd dump it in a moment if he didn't need to blend in once he'd navigated this maze of defunct industrial sites and regained the safe, busy, tourist-infested streets of Greenwich.

He has no idea what his pursuers will do if they catch him, but the stories Nash was spouting about Crouch and the vat of acid -- Eames hawks, and gasps, and runs faster.

"Hey!"

The voice is American, which is enough of a surprise to catch Eames' attention for a moment. There's a slim figure beckoning from a buddleia-shaded alley off to Eames' right, away from the river and the Thames Path. Eames risks a glance over his shoulder: he can actually make out one of the blokes chasing him now, a thug with what looks very much like a sub-machine--

"Come _on_ ," says the Yank, exasperated, from the shadows. "It's all over once they start shooting."

"True," pants Eames. He ducks into the alleyway and follows his new acquaintance down between the rusting corrugated-iron walls. The alley's narrow enough that they have to go single file, and it stinks of piss and cannabis beneath the omnipresent vinegar reek of the sugar refinery. There is mud, and probably worse, on Eames' shoes: _those_ he'll be glad to bin, because they're a bugger to run in.

Of course he didn't expect to be running for his life this afternoon. He'd have worn something more ... practical, if he'd known Nash and Sharp were such a pair of weasels.

The American's slim, fit, extremely well-dressed. _His_ suit shows no signs of haste and damage: he's not fleeing anything himself. Eames musters the breath to ask, hoarsely, "Why are you helping me?"

"Shut up and run," says the other, not turning.

It's good advice. Somewhere behind them Eames can hear someone turning the air blue: it's not as though there's any way of concealing their route, and sooner or later the pursuers will bring in reinforcements.

"Here!" says the American sharply, and Eames stumbles to a halt just in time to turn sharply left, into what seems to be a loading bay.

"This is a dead end," he says, as calmly as he can under the circumstances. "We'll be cornered like rats."

The American huffs a sigh. His skin's very pale, and there's something -- is he wearing _make-up_? There's something oddly luminous, almost sparkly, about his skin. And --

Eames loses his train of thought (which was proceeding along interesting lines having to do with exotic dancers, circus performers and other professions with a tradition of (a) glitter and (b) flexibility) when his companion reaches over, grabs hold of one corner of a steel shipping container -- the ten-foot sort, but still damn heavy -- and hauls it across the mouth alley they've just emerged from. Hauls it as if it's made of cardboard, though Eames is pretty sure (not least from the sonorous clang of metal on metal) that it's not.

"Fuck me," says Eames, staring at the barricade and back at his rescuer.

"Later, Mr Eames."

"Wait," says Eames. "Who?"

The American grins at him. It's a peculiarly sweet grin and it makes him look ten years younger. He's _dimpled_ , for fuck's sake. Also, definitely, distinctly ... sparkly.

"Don't bother lying, Mr Eames," says the American. "I'm on your side, and I'll be very disappointed if you're not who I think you are. ... I'm Arthur, by the way."

"I certainly wouldn't want to disappoint you, Arthur," says Eames faintly, extending a hand. Arthur's grip is firm and cool. Eames stares at his skin -- no, it's not a trick of the grey London light, Arthur's pale, pale skin is actually glittering like crystal, like fresh-cut marble before it's polished, as if a thousand minuscule diamonds have been dusted over his face -- and wonders how that delicious coolness will feel against the rest of his body. When he raises his eyes to meet Arthur's intense gaze (his eyes are a compelling liquid topaz colour) he has the distinct impression that he'll be exploring Arthur with all five senses -- possibly inventing a sixth and a seventh, just to get the most out of the experience -- by the end of the night.

"Mr Eames," says Arthur, "believe me when I tell you that you're not a disappointment. Now ..." He's still holding Eames' sweaty, dirty hand in his own, and he shows no sign of wanting to let go. "... Do you happen to know of a discreet hotel within thirty minutes of here?"

"Why thirty minutes?" asks Eames, because out of all the questions he wants to ask right now, that's the most easily worded.

Arthur glances up at the low grey clouds above them. "Because in an hour it'll be sunny," he says, with utmost sincerity. "And I don't care for the sun."

Sunlight? Oh, no, wait just a moment. "I --" begins Eames.

Arthur lays his other hand, cool as marble, against Eames' lips, hushing him: and smiles again, broad and sweet and dimpled.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> This time around, my assiduous research consisted mostly of Cleolinda's [Twilight page](http://cleoland.pbworks.com/w/page/10373763/Twilight). (I did have to check that I remembered the source of Greenwich's famous sour-vinegar smell, wafted away since 2006: but the general ambience of the Thames Path east of Greenwich is all from experience.)  
> This fic may be blamed on the Evil Enabler who responded to my initial vague Tweet with "oh god if you write xover where arthur is secretly a twilight!verse vampirei may actly cry & not know whether it is good or bad".


End file.
